Stalker. Ларс Кеплер

      She has time to notice that the gloomy garden is deserted. The bushes are moving in the wind, the swing swaying rhythmically.

      She quickly closes the door, not bothered about catching part of the curtain in it, and hurriedly locks it, then pulls the key out and backs away.

      She puts the key in the bowl of loose change and adjusts the kimono.

      At least it’s locked now, she thinks, as she hears a creak behind her back.

      She spins round and then smiles at her own reaction. It was just the window in the living room shifting on its hinges when the flow of air stopped.

      The audience is booing and whistling at the judges’ decision.

      Susanna thinks about getting her phone from the bedroom and calling Björn. He ought to be waiting at the gate by now. She wants to hear his voice as she searches the house before settling down in front of the television. She’s wound herself up too much to relax otherwise. The only problem is that there’s no reception at all in the basement. Maybe she could put it on speaker and leave it halfway down the stairs.

      She tells herself that she doesn’t have to creep about in her own home, but can’t help moving quietly.

      She passes the closed door to the basement, sees the dark windows in the dining room from the corner of her eye, and carries on towards the living room.

      She knows she locked the front door after her run, but still wants to go and check. It would be just as well – then she won’t have to think about it again.

      There’s a whistling sound from the open window in the living room and the curtain is being sucked back towards the narrow opening.

      She starts to walk towards the dining room and notices that the wild flowers in the vase on the heavy oak table have run out of water, before coming to an abrupt halt.

      It feels as though her whole body is covered by a thin layer of ice. In an instant adrenalin is coursing through her blood.

      The three windows of the dining room act as large mirrors. The table and eight chairs are lit up by the light from the ceiling lamp, and behind them stands a figure.

      Susanna stares at the reflection of the room, her heart pounding so hard it almost deafens her.

      In the doorway to the hall someone is standing with a kitchen knife in their hand.

      He’s inside, he’s inside the house, Susanna thinks.

      She’s shut and locked the kitchen door when she should have escaped into the garden.

      She moves slowly backwards.

      The intruder is standing completely still with his back to the dining room, staring at the corridor to the kitchen.

      The large knife is hanging from his right hand, twitching impatiently.

      Susanna backs away, her eyes fixed on the figure in the hall. Her right foot slides across the floor and the parquet creaks slightly as she shifts her weight.

      She has to get out, but if she tries to get to the kitchen she’ll be visible along the passageway. Maybe she’d have time to get the key from the bowl, but it’s by no means certain.

      She continues backing away cautiously, now seeing the intruder in the last window.

      The floor creaks beneath her left foot and she stops and watches as the figure turns round to face the dining room, then looks up and catches sight of her in the dark windows.

      Susanna takes another slow step back. The intruder starts to walk towards her. Whimpering with fear, she turns and runs into the living room.

      She slips on the carpet, loses her balance and hits her knee on the floor, putting her hand out to break her fall and gasping with pain.

      The sound of a chair hitting the dining table.

      She brings the standard lamp down as she gets up. It hits the wall before clattering to the floor.

      She can hear rapid footsteps behind her.

      Without looking round she rushes into the bathroom again and locks the door behind her. The air in there is still warm and damp.

      This can’t be happening, she thinks in panic.

      She hurries past the basin and toilet and pulls the curtain back from the little window. Her hands are shaking as she tries to undo one of the catches. It’s stuck. She tugs at it and tries to force herself to calm down. She fiddles with it and tugs it sideways, and manages to get the first catch open as she hears a scraping sound from the lock on the bathroom door. She rushes back and grabs hold of the lock just as it starts to turn. She clings on to it with both hands, and feels her heart racing in terror.

       5

      The intruder has slipped a screwdriver, or possibly the back of the knife blade, into the little slot on the other side of the lock. Susanna is holding on to the handle of the lock, but is shaking so badly that she’s scared she might lose her grip.

      ‘God, this can’t be happening,’ she whispers to herself. ‘This isn’t happening, it can’t be happening …’

      She glances quickly towards the window. It’s far too small for her to be able to throw herself through it. The only hope of escape is to run to the window, undo the second catch, push it open and then climb up, but she daren’t let go of the lock.

      She’s never been so terrified in her life. This is a bottomless, mortal dread, beyond all control.

      The lock now feels hot and slippery under her tensed fingers. There’s a metallic scraping sound from the other side.

      ‘Hello?’ she says towards the door.

      The intruder tries to open the door with a quick twist, but Susanna is prepared and manages to resist.

      ‘What do you want?’ she says, in as composed a voice as she can muster. ‘Do you need money? If you do, I can understand that. It’s not a problem.’

      She gets no answer, but she can hear the scrape of metal against metal, and feel the vibration through the lock.

      ‘You’re welcome to look, but there’s nothing especially valuable in the house … the television’s fairly new, but …’

      She falls silent, because she’s shaking so much it’s hard to understand what she’s saying. She whispers to herself that she must stay calm, as she clutches the lock tight and thinks that her fear is dangerous, that it might make the intruder think bad thoughts.

      ‘My bag’s hanging in the hall,’ she says, then swallows hard. ‘A black bag. Inside it there’s a purse containing some cash and a Visa card. I’ve just been paid, and I can tell you the code if you want.’

      The intruder stops trying to turn the lock.

      ‘OK, listen, the code is 3945,’ she says to the door. ‘I haven’t seen your face, you can take the money and I’ll wait until tomorrow before I report the card missing.’

      Still holding the lock tightly, Susanna puts her ear to the door, and imagines she can hear footsteps moving away across the floor before an advert break on television drowns out all other sounds.

      She doesn’t know if it was stupid to give him her real code, but she just wants this to end, and she’s more worried about her jewellery, her mother’s engagement ring and the necklace with the big emeralds she was given after Morgan was born.

      Susanna waits behind the door and keeps telling herself that this isn’t over yet, that she mustn’t lose her concentration for a moment.

      Carefully she changes hands on the lock, without letting go of it. Her right thumb and forefinger have gone numb. She shakes her hand and puts her ear to the door, thinking that it’s now